The Blood Diaries
by Daughter of the Moon Goddess
Summary: Imagine this: Caroline isn't the nice, seemingly normal girl in the Tv Series. Instead, she's a viscious blood machine, known as Bloody Mary.
1. Chapter 1

The Blood Diaries

_A fan fiction during which Caroline is made a vampire during the French Revolution by Damon Salvatore, only to stray from being a rich young woman, to the merciless killer Bloody Mary. Crossover between Angel, Buffy the Vampire Slayer, and Vampire Diaries. _

**Present Day **

I smile as I look over the text in these pages of something my young human self would have referred to as a diary. I grin because I can feel the worn paper, hundreds of years old, rubbed against my fingers, sending flecks of dried blood into the air. Already in its appearance, lies my story.

My story. The words belong to a saint, a queen, or a scientist. I am none of the above; no, I am more. I am no saint, as God himself has repelled me many times. During my vampire years, the Devil became my mother, my father. I rule no nation, only the desire for power. And the only thing I have ever explored is the darkest corners of my mind, and what they can do to other people.

You might have heard of Damon Salvatore, my sire, or Stefan "Ripper" Salvatore. Maybe you've heard of Angel, or Angelus, as he was known to me before his I'm-a-total-good-guy thing. Or that girl Elena everyone's always whining about. But I'm definitely sure you've heard of me. Why? Because I am part of an evil that lingers in every soul, in every heartbeat. Heard of Bloody Mary, the drink and the ghost? Three guesses as to where the name comes from.

As I said before, this is my story. No lies, no cover-ups to make me sound like a sweet, innocent girl who "accidentally" slaughtered thousands. Nor am I a Stefan or an Angel who keep going all emo about what they did to others when they were very, very bad. I'm not going to keep a single detail from you, so don't run and hide from the truth.

Oh dear. I just realized something. If you really are running around there somewhere, then you know I'll catch you right? I'll always find you. And if you've read this, then you know exactly what's going to happen when I do.

Toodles,

Caroline

_Paris, France _

_1792 _

I grew up in any girl's paradise. Rich parents, beautiful clothes, expensive house, and did I mention the adorable French accent? We lived in a grand mansion in the outskirts of town reserved for the First Class. My father was a clergyman, but had only achieved this job due to that my mother bore some relation to Queen Mary Antoinette. If you ask me, I don't believe there's a single drop of royal blood in my system. Well, maybe from a past snack or two, but I was talking about the genetic kind. Anyways, the point is that we lived like kings (except for the guillotining part), with dinner parties, balls and First Class only dances. Life as I knew it, was easy.

I never had to lift a finger to do anything, because we had a bell that solved all my problems. My sisters and I got along fine, although we were as polite and well mannered to each other as we were to guests. I look back and scoff at my naïve, good girl act, at thinking it all would last. How could it?

Because, truth be told, whilst my life barred out danger and trouble, it also barred out my true self. But I wasn't aware of it then. That a rich brat as myself could have been elevated to something better, purer. That I would one day walk in my real skin, stained with victims' blood, right in the direction of all the danger, all the trouble.

It began, typically enough, with a boy. I was a cliché in the way that I made heads turn everywhere, which never failed to please me. However, this did mean that I was overflowed with flowers and gifts, which _exhausted_ my spoiled self. You laugh now (or probably not, if you're looking right at me), but sending all those thank you cards really were a bummer. Sometimes, if you were unlucky enough, you even broke a nail. Gasp!

Had I been a smart girl, I would have stayed at home in my luxurious house, especially with the revolution, and all. But no. Instead, I had stayed out to go to an exquisite opera, and decided to walk home instead of take a carriage. This, in combination with dark alleys, did not make for a good result.

He was gorgeous, of course. If he hadn't been, I would have probably run in the other direction, screaming my beautiful blonde head off. Black hair, killer eyes – who could blame me for pausing to stare?

So there I was, gawking away at none other than Damon Salvatore, when, annoyingly enough, Stefan showed up. He came from the shadows of a dim lit, evaluating me.

I was used to admirers, strange and even stranger. But in Stefan's eyes, there lay something different. Predatory, even. As if he were a lion, stalking a potential kill. Abruptly, I was brought out of my brainwashed stare, and began to pace away in my pink, pastel dress. Have I mentioned how hard is it to walk away quickly in one of those? Not to mention in heels.

Despite that my senses were on high alert, all I heard in my head were my mother's words_: Always behave like a lady._ Only, of course, in French. Duh. So I, dumbly enough, decided to stay and chitchat.

"Hello", was all I managed to say in nervous voice, before the two brothers have both taken one quick stride, and were now less than a meter in front of me.

_Paris, France _

_1792_

_One hour later _

My closed eyelids fluttered, sending quivers to my lashes.

"Good kill, brother."

The voice is high, yet muffled, even though I know it shouldn't be. Something's wrong with my hearing. It sounds as if though I were being held under water, but in the same time trapped in a cave where the noises are reverberated.

"She's not dead, and you know it."

This voice had to belong to the killer eyed boy. It just had to.

"Only one question. Why her?"

Laughter.

"You saw her. Rich, pretty, and vulnerable. What's not to like?"

I could almost detect the smile on the other young man's face, despite that I embraced by darkness.

"True, true. Not bad for your first progeny.

Only now do I manage to open my eyes.


	2. Chapter 2

_Paris, France _

_1792_

_One hour later _

My closed eyelids fluttered, sending quivers to my lashes.

"Good kill, brother."

The voice is high, yet muffled, even though I know it shouldn't be. Something's wrong with my hearing. It sounds as if though I were being held under water, but in the same time trapped in a cave where the noises are reverberated.

"She's not dead, and you know it."

This voice had to belong to the killer eyed boy. It just had to.

"Only one question. Why her?"

Laughter.

"You saw her. Rich, pretty, and vulnerable. What's not to like?"

I could almost detect the smile on the other young man's face, despite that I was embraced by darkness.

"True, true. Not bad for your first progeny."

Only now do I manage to open my eyes, only to see that the space I'm lying in is not only very dusty but also pitch black. I take a deep breath. It's obvious what has happened here. Those two guys, despite their good looks, must be insane, and have mixed me up with someone else. I can't blame them for kidnapping me (Who wouldn't want me all for themselves?) but I mean_, pretty_? Really? Even a blind man's chin would drop at the sight of me. And what about _vulnerable_? I mean, just because I live in a mansion guarded by twelve guards 24/7 and have never even talked to a peasant (never would I degrade myself in such manner), it doesn't mean that I am VULNERABLE. So now there's only one solution to all of this.

"My father's going to hunt you down, you know," I call out at the two brothers. "And you know what? He's going to get you _guillotined_." Proud of my little speech, I sit (lie?) back, envisioning the terror on their faces.

At first my words are greeted by silence. Then there's a sudden outburst of simultaneous laughter.

In defeat, I lean against what appears to be a door. In the background, I can hear the Salvatores say something, but I am now tuned out to their words. Instead, I feel the long scratch marks which sometimes decrease to small, crescent shaped wounds on the wood. I run my finger over them, and stumble upon a small, broken piece of an unnamable material. I feel my forehead crease, as I pick at the pieces, managing to pry one loose. It rests on two of my fingertips while I hold it in front of my iris, close enough for me to see. In panic, I toss it away from my body, hearing it click against the floorboards around me. I rub my hands, as if I could rid myself of the terrible truth.

Nails. The door is filled with human nails.


	3. Chapter 3

_Paris, France _

_1792 _

"What is it?"

"A present. I told you." Damon's voice was worn out; to begin with, he had seemed amused by my consistent asking of questions. He used to laugh at my inquires, now, he looked as if he wanted to rip my head off. I certainly hoped he wouldn't, considering all the time I'd spent on my curls.

"What kind of present? Is it a good one?"

"Caroline," Damon said, impatiently tapping his foot against the floor. "Would I be giving you a present if I thought it was rubbish?"

I considered. "Maybe. As revenge for me scaring your fiancé away." I bit my lip. Unintentionally, I had put myself on a dangerous path.

Damon turned away, leaving me staring at the shadows building on his face. Words like Katherine and _fiancé _were forbidden in this dark mansion of a household. Neither Stefan nor Damon minded the acts of ruthless killing, but one mention of true love, and both of them went completely stare-of-into-the-distance dramatic. Well, mostly it was Stefan going all drama queen, even in his Ripper days, but occasionally Damon skipped the angry denial phase and went for the same expression. It was clear to me, even though I'd only been educated in sewing and good behavior, that it troubled both of the Salvatores.

Ok, flibbertigibbets. Don't expect me to go all Gossip Girl and reveal the latest rumors about Katherine, 'cause honestly, I'd don't know the whole story. Anyways, back to the point.

I was now wondering what it could be that Damon had bought me. Vampires don't exactly celebrate Christmas or anything, on account of the whole holy thing being a bit of a touchy subject around diabolical creatures of the night. So I was kind of wondering what kind of present, he, of all people, would be getting me.

Surprisingly, instead of revealing a package of some sort, Damon only swung the door open, giving me a view of the street. Hardly amused but unwilling to upset him further, I stepped outside, holding my hand up in reflex to the dying light. It was only a few weeks ago that Stefan had managed to get hold of a ring for me, and I was still getting used to the concept of not catching fire under the sun.

Stefan stood there, waiting for us, and in silence we began walking. We walked for hours without a word being spoken, until we reached a hill somewhere in the middle of nowhere. Now, you more than anyone else know that I'm not the poetic type, but my first meeting with Angelus does require a bit of artistic license. So this is how it went.

The sun had just bled out into the sky, the darkness yet aching for light as it began to manifest itself, when we three walked onto the hill. Our darkness and ominous silence wreathed the setting, twisting it away from the lingering brightness, and into the shadows. The very newborn stars were tremulous before us, grieving at the foot of the heavens, knowing what fate our characters bore. Remnant was only a spark of hope, of which the gods themselves weren't willing to bet on. Languorously, the three of us strode across the hills, the earth beneath us not even being strenuous enough to stay alive, perishing to weeds and dying roots. And at the end of the path, a smile, one worth a hundred lives, greeted his servants.

Three guesses as to whom the smile belonged to.


End file.
